


Packing for the World

by sonshineandshowers



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Angst, Coping, Grief, Hurt/Comfort, Loss, M/M, Mpreg, Resilience, Sad, Science Fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-31
Updated: 2020-07-31
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:08:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25253614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonshineandshowers/pseuds/sonshineandshowers
Summary: Their baby was born from Gil’s mind and carried on into Malcolm’s after long talks and realizing Malcolm might actually have benefits of compassion and security to offer a child. But packing for the world doesn't go according to plan.
Relationships: Gil Arroyo/Malcolm Bright
Comments: 2
Kudos: 12
Collections: PSon Goblin Swap Summer 2020!





	Packing for the World

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ToriCeratops](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToriCeratops/gifts).



> Thank you to Hannah_BWTM for brainstorming and betaing, without whom this story would be incomprehensible and half of it would not exist. <3

“Bright, for the love of — get your ass out of the middle of the wrecked crane!” Gil commands.

Malcolm jerks his head up, finding beams dangling from the crane’s snapped jib above him. “Whoops,” he says, scurrying a few steps away, then several more when Gil keeps waving him his way.

“Can you _please_ listen?” Gil squeezes both of Malcolm’s shoulders, giving him a small shake. “Please.”

The construction site turned murder scene has a flurry of activity trying to secure the damaged equipment, but all law enforcement personnel are waiting at the edge of the tape. Malcolm knows Gil isn’t going to like what he has to say, but they’ve long agreed to honesty. “I didn’t see it,” he says, eyes looking off to the side, bashful over his own statement.

“It’s a damn _crane_ , Bright,” Gil says tersely, his concern transferring through fingertips that squeeze a little tighter into Malcolm’s wool suit. His eyebrows race from the top of his sunglasses for his hairline, echoing the vast area the crane takes up.

“I’m sorry.” Though Malcolm witnesses the collective effort now that Gil's reprimanded him, he isn’t the best at seeing the big picture when a case dances right in front of him. At the sight of the victim splayed in the middle of the scene, he’d hurried to the most interesting part, forgoing any dangers that may have been around them. Dangers he knows keep Gil up at night, even after several years of living with his partner.

Gil lets him go with a slight dip of his head. The ghost of Gil's touch lingers in Malcolm's mind as if staying connected could help telepathically convince Gil he's in one piece. Working a case, he can't do anything more about it now.

“I’m gonna take a walk — clear my head,” Malcolm says, gesturing his hand toward the sidewalk instead of the scene that’s definitely going to take awhile to be deemed safe to reenter.

“Phone on.” Gil's eyes aren't visible behind the polarized shield of his sunglasses, but Malcolm knows there's a warning there just the same — don't worry Gil twice in one day.

Malcolm pats his pants pocket and walks away, the first few steps long strides to get him some quick distance. His earlier excitement is now replaced with self-degradation and guilt that tip the see-saw toward self-destructive behavior. Breathing slowly, he attempts to stabilize.

“I would be _devastated_ if I lost you,” Gil had told Malcolm in the middle of a discussion four years back that they were living like a long-term couple and hadn’t talked about the seriousness of their relationship. It hadn’t helped that Malcolm had used himself as bait to catch a murderer a few hours before and bore a gauzed knife wound on his upper arm to prove it.

Gil had begged him to have an iota of concern for his safety. He’d kept Malcolm in the loft the whole next day, retrieving anything his partner could possibly need as if he was laid up versus a small knife wound. Only four inches. _Maybe_ five.

Watching Malcolm put himself in danger brings out the roaring, fire-breathing dragon of Gil's fears poised to scorch the earth of all other thoughts, yet Malcolm still can’t manage to read every scene right. Malcolm will find something interesting, and all of a sudden, he’ll be back where Gil doesn’t want him, a few steps from an injury he’ll never return from.

“Think of them,” Gil reminds him, time and time again.

Their baby that remains a pipe dream, born from Gil’s mind and carried on into Malcolm’s after long talks and realizing he might actually have benefits of compassion and security to offer a child. The prospect of subjecting a child to his darker moments still petrifies him to a granite statue fit to appear in his mother's entryway, but he knows Gil will be there to look out for the both of them — he always has been. If a baby can even happen. Trips to the doctor have not been pleasant.

Malcolm had never mentally prepared for the level of failure involved in a new medical technique. The number of things that had to go right for fertilization to result in a viable embryo seemed infinite. They’d completed all the preparatory medical procedures, but call after call from the doctor landed in the same result — no baby.

Despite their difficulties, Gil still watches over Malcolm like he is the most precious person. Which, if Malcolm allows himself to accept, he supposes he is. They’ve never exchanged ceremony or rings, but one look of happiness or despair, and Malcolm knows he means everything to Gil. And Gil means love, safety, and all the things he could never describe in a word to him. The feeling is foreign, something he’s never experienced with anyone else for such an extended duration.

Malcolm kicks the concrete, scolding himself for running to the body without thinking. For the worry that creases Gil’s brow that will never press out. For failing to keep the place of safety within their relationship. Again.

He slips into a convenience store and picks up a six-pack of fitness waters to bring back to the team. Finishing his walk around the rest of the block, he doesn’t feel any less guilty, but at least he has refreshment to offer them while they wait.

* * *

Later in the week, Gil leans against the headboard and Malcolm’s back lays against his chest, both of their hands entwined over Malcolm’s stomach. It's a gesture that started after they'd agreed to have a baby all those months back, a place of imagining and thoughts of the future.

“Are you going to carry them first?” Gil asks, brushing his thumb over the closed plastic port at Malcolm’s left hip.

“Do you want to carry them first?” Malcolm repeats.

“Isn’t that some of the joy of this modern medicine thing?” Gil rubs the back of Malcolm’s fingers. “We both can. They can know both of our bodies. Your speedy little heartbeat versus mine.”

The hummingbird flutter of Malcolm’s heartbeat picks up, and he knows it’s a matter of time before it reaches Gil’s fingers. “I don’t really want to talk about it if it’s not going to happen,” he says, sighing.

“We can still wish, kid,” Gil reassures, nuzzling his neck. Seeking the bright side is second nature for Gil, even though there's no reason to expect success.

Malcolm finds it easier not to hope, instead staying in a reliable place of doom and gloom. That something can turn out positive? Well, that isn’t something he's accustomed to.

“Please try to rest,” Gil says. “If you won’t do it for yourself, for me.”

Malcolm’s head spins with things he could’ve done differently at work, missed calls from Dr. Whitly, and worry that they won’t be able to have the child Gil wants, that one of Gil’s needs will forever go unfilled. But under the reassuring movement of Gil’s fingers against his stomach and kisses at his shoulders and neck, he drifts to sleep.

* * *

“You have no idea what you’re talking about, man,” JT teases and takes a sip of his beer.

“I have three of them in my collection, safely locked away. You can come over and I’ll prove it to you,” Malcolm says, returning his water to the table. Each of the points on the antique throwing stars whirl in his mind's eye.

“How are you gonna babyproof those cases? You’re _asking_ for disaster.”

“We’ll worry about that when we get there,” Gil says, saving Malcolm from the conversation. “Double or nothing?” He tilts his head toward the pool table where Tally is re-racking. They're several games in, drinks and friendly conversation flowing at their regular hangout of Amsterdam Billiards.

“Nah, nah — doubles,” JT says, then points his beer at Malcolm. “I wanna take his money.”

“My money is technically also his money,” Malcolm returns. Plenty of papers had been drawn up leaving everything to Gil if his untimely demise were to occur. They had updated all of their legal paperwork nearly a year ago in anticipation of having a baby — it had just never happened.

“Feels different coming out of your pocket,” JT teases. “You break.”

“Oh, c’mon,” Malcolm complains. Gil laughs from beside him. “Whose team are you on?!”

“Fresh pack of Twizzlers on the way home if the game takes under an hour,” Gil wagers, resting his hand on his partner’s hip.

“I will chip in for lemon Jell-O,” Tally says.

“You all are taunting me,” Malcolm says, grabbing his pool cue, tempted to pan it around to each of them like a sword.

“When there’s so few things you’re bad at, we’ve gotta get our licks in while we can,” JT says, laughing.

Malcolm’s break barely taps any of the balls away from each other. None of them care, their laughter carrying on as the game tips into the second hour, the prize of sweets forgotten.

* * *

Sneaking a lollipop from the mug on the corner of Dani's desk, Malcolm gets caught with a _tsk-tsk_. "Lunch?" she asks, but he unwraps the treat anyway and returns to his desk.

"It's a food group," he says around the sweet, the ball rocking against his cheek.

"Not if — "

“We’re going to Central Park,” Gil says, walking through the bullpen and interrupting their conversation. “Bring water — pretty big area to cover.”

“North side, south side? Where are we going?” Malcolm asks in excitement, hurrying behind him.

“Wherever the investigation takes us,” JT chimes in, and the two men share a teasing raised eyebrow and eye-roll.

“Starting…” Malcolm says.

“Central Park West,” Gil says.

"Shotgun," Malcolm calls.

"You're in the back with me," Dani corrects. "Don't need anyone cranky before we get to the scene."

"Won't that make you — " Malcolm starts, but one look from Dani, and he thinks better of it.

The team loads into a department SUV and heads to the scene.

* * *

The scent of fresh-cut grass brings a pleasant warmth of renewal to Malcolm's mind while he traces a blood trail across the concrete with his eyes. The team had already covered many sections of the park, and they're left converging around a small pavilion.

Stalled just to the left of the entryway and focused on the task at hand, he loses track of anything outside of the evidence in front of him. The team had been in loose pairs, spreading out and coming back together as they canvased the scene — they'd meet up with him at some point.

There’s spatter across the concrete, a more pronounced imprint where the victim must have been dragged away. They’d already found pieces of him in their search. They haven’t found a murder weapon yet, but Malcolm doesn’t see one.

A chainsaw's roar rips the air in two, snapping Malcolm's attention from the concrete. It's deafening in the enclosed space, the resulting shriek of anguish paralyzing. Vital spray shoots all over Malcolm's suit, yet he's unable to process what's happening. A gunshot's blast lands him at the bottom of a heap, warmth seeping into him.

He was supposed to stay safe for Gil. Supposed to stay safe. Whatever this is isn't safe, isn't —

“Bright, you okay?” JT’s voice, then Malcolm is pulled from the pile, the sunlight blinding him.

Malcolm grasps at his chest, his fingers coming back slicked with crimson and fragments, shaking in front of his eyes.

“It’s not yours,” JT says.

“Supposed to stay safe,” Malcolm says, the mantra making it out of his head and into the air.

“You couldn’t have known, Bright.”

“’s Gil?” His head twists, trying to find him.

“Stay here.”

“‘is off me.” Malcolm scratches at his tie, the top of his shirt, even pushes away part of his jacket.

“I’ve got it,” JT says, helping him out of the ruined items. The jacket’s ripped near the pocket, and part of the shirt falls off when JT pulls it away.

Malcolm’s chest shivers, now exposed to the air, traces of blood chilling him. A space blanket comes down over him. A space blanket?

“Paramedic’s gonna help you,” JT says.

“G-Gil, I want Gil.” Malcolm struggles, shifting to try to see him.

Malcolm pushes at the arms around him, forcing his way through the fences, but all he catches is the glimpse of a needle. “I don’t fit sedation criteria,” he argues. “I have a medical condition — you can’t sedate me.”

He doesn’t understand what they’re doing, doesn’t even know what they are treating him for when he feels a pinch and the world gets hazy.

* * *

Sterile. The type of smell that reminds Malcolm he fucked up and broke his promise to Gil to stay safe. A thick wad of gauze presses into his right side, held in place with paper tape under a loose gown. He rests his palm over it, finding he barely feels anything.

How much pain relief do they have him on?

He’d gotten hit? With what?

“Gil?” Malcolm asks, his eyes opening, his mouth tasting like cotton.

“Hey, you’re awake.” Dani?

“I want Gil,” he says. Whatever's going on, Gil can explain. Hold him until he feels more at ease.

Her face peers over him, revealing exhaustion. Then a second face he doesn't expect takes up the other side. “Juan Tauro?” Malcolm says.

But JT doesn't frown, doesn't give him any scorn, doesn't tell him to shut up and keep trying. He just looks… tired.

“Where’s Gil?” Malcolm asks. He can't see past either of them, and there's only a wall at the end of the tunnel of his hospital bed.

Dani takes his hand, slides their fingers together, and rubs his shoulder. That's what Gil does. Not her, not —

“Something happened,” Malcolm says, the reality hitting him like a semi, his battered shell dragging along for the ride.

“Gil’s dead,” JT says, taking his other hand and squeezing it. No fanfare. No drawing out the bad news like the extra time could bring the man back to life. Just all the vehicles on the highway running over Malcolm's dismembered bits until they're flattened, one with the pavement.

Malcolm’s mouth first opens in a silent scream, his head and shoulders coming forward over his body. Safe. He was supposed to be safe. Two steps to the right, it would’ve been him. He was — “Ahhh,” a sob bursts from his mouth, surprising himself at its intensity, the wound in his side finally making itself known.

Two sets of arms wrap around him in awkward not-quite-hugs from people he didn’t expect. They’re holding him so tight, next to him blocking out the world beyond the sides of the hospital bed. A world where Gil’s —

“No — no,” he says, his stomach clenching with horrible pain that wracks his body. His side’s on fire, but it’s the words ravaging his gut that overwhelm every neuron. Ears roaring, head bursting, everything whites out.

* * *

It’s a graze from a chainsaw. Only a graze. They let Malcolm go home to the vast emptiness of his partner missing. A business trip, a vacation — nothing can hide that Gil’s gone on a permanent siesta. Retired. Not in the good way they’d talked about.

It’s only three or four inches, yet his wound is a constant reminder that his partner’s not there to care for him. Coffee doesn’t make its way to bed, snuggles don’t happen, the concerned frown doesn’t even make an appearance.

Gil’s just gone.

And Malcolm’s mother had called Dani demanding she stay, so it’s him sitting in the chair by the bed, too stubborn to go lay down on the couch where she might want to get close to him and give him comfort. Any form of compassion isn’t welcome.

He just wants to be left alone. His thoughts run the gamut from how they could have possibly missed a suspect on scene to attempting to recover his last image of Gil from a part of his mind that has hastily blacked it out. It isn't constructive, but it's all he can do while Dani waits in the next room.

She gives him space, sitting at the counter, and he can only see her when she stands to go to the fridge for more water. It’s happened a few times, and she just lets him be.

“I’m gonna make grilled cheese,” Dani says from the kitchen, and he can hear the cheese unwrapping. “Do you want one or two?”

Zero. Fat chance in hell that’s gonna happen. “A nibble,” he lies so it doesn’t become a discussion.

The smell of it cooking in the kitchen churns his stomach and he disappears to the bathroom.

* * *

Sleep is impossible. Malcolm reaches for Gil when he nods off, only to jerk awake again when his hand doesn’t connect with warm skin. There's no spooning together, no trace of an occasional snore.

Just silence.

But the cacophony of pots and pans banging in his head about what he could have done differently beats him into submission. He can't sleep in bed, but he can't get out of it either.

His mother collects him for Gil's wake, and it takes everything he has to comply with her insistence that he get up and shower, fix his hair, put on the suit she'd picked specifically for the occasion.

Some celebration, his partner's death. He rubs his skin raw trying to erase the image of human slurry from his head. Shakes in his suit because the last time he'd been in one, he got covered in Gil.

His mother has to retrieve him from the bathroom floor to get him out the door.

* * *

Malcolm can’t look at the casket. His life partner is bound to disappear into the ground forever, and he can’t look at the damn casket, can’t see the man he loves one last time.

It’s before viewing hours, before he’s supposed to go out and stand receiving condolences from a few hundred people, and he can’t. He can’t do any of it. He wants to reschedule the whole damn thing to a point thirty years down the line, where perhaps some freak accident takes himself out first.

His mother wants to pour alcohol into him, his sister’s still in prison, and he just can’t. do. this.

He bursts out the back door, walking down the sidewalk away from where people might enter. He gets one block, then two, three when his phone buzzes. “Hello?” he answers on autopilot.

“My boy! I hear I’m gonna be a grandfather. Or grandpa. Gramps?” Dr. Whitly’s suggestions crash through his head like a tidal wave, sweeping away any other thoughts.

“What the hell?”

“I just heard. It took. Go pick up your pack, and you’ll be on your way to a healthy baby.”

“Excuse me?” How did Dr. Whitly even know? How had privileged HIPAA information ended up in his hands? After months of failures, why now? Why?

“Malcolm, you’re breathing awfully hard,” he vaguely hears his father through the phone.

He drops to the ground, the whole world spinning out around him.

* * *

“Take it easy,” JT says, one hand gripping Malcolm’s upper arm, the other holding a bottle of water out to him where he sits on the sidewalk. Malcolm shoos it away, but JT insists, gesturing the water toward him. “At least a sip,” JT says.

Malcolm drinks nearly a third of the bottle, finding himself suddenly very thirsty. Had he eaten breakfast? Had he taken his pills? Had he ingested anything all day? 2PM, he’s supposed to be waiting in the funeral home to accept everyone’s condolences. He can’t even do _that_ right for Gil.

JT’s hand grasps his, and Malcolm’s forced to focus, pulling him away from his panic. “Today might be the hardest day of your life,” JT says. “You’ve got us. Doesn’t matter if it takes you all night to get back there.”

“We’re having a baby,” Malcolm whispers, unable to believe the information himself, unable to comprehend how he’s possibly going to see that through without his partner.

JT stills a brief moment, yet takes the information in stride, offering, “Congratulations.”

“I’d like to go pick them up first,” he says, knowing he’s stalling when there’s a whole group of people waiting, but all he wants is a piece of his love that is alive.

To JT’s credit, he says, “Let’s go,” and steers Malcolm back in the direction he’s parked.

* * *

The doctor’s not thrilled with Malcolm’s blood pressure, nor his lack of eating. She scoffs at the healing wound on his side. She doesn’t like that he can’t remember what he’d done that day or that his chosen method of grieving comes with a lot of forgotten things that float and wander in the world around him. Sharing many condolences, she wants him to come back a different day, but gives in to his demand that it has to be today to meet their papa.

Stripped down to his skin on top, she fits the pack to him for the first time, small straps going over his shoulders like suspenders, the thin translucent pouch sitting at his front pliant and fluid like a second skin of a half-filled Ziplock bag, another set of straps going around the small of his back. The port near his hip both he and Gil had implanted in preparation is disinfected, then connected to the pouch. Over his stomach rests their embryo, too small to see in the clear fluid unless he looks really closely.

"You're carrying three weeks post-fertilization now, Mr. Bright. Congratulations," the doctor says.

Their baby. His first look at their baby. He runs his fingers over the plastic pouch, feeling the give of the fluid underneath.

“Any sign of pain at the site, you need to come in immediately. Otherwise, keep up with your diet, your therapist, and disinfectant, and I’ll see you in a few weeks,” the doctor says. She offers a quick goodbye and disappears through the door.

He’s left alone with a baby, and he can’t even figure out how to get his shirt back on. He spends fifteen minutes on the brink of panic over having to get redressed before he leaves the office and returns to JT’s car.

“You look about the same,” JT says, starting the car. Both of Malcolm’s hands hold his stomach protectively, feeling the fluid shift. “Tally did that all the time.”

“Hmm?” Malcolm says.

“Protecting the little.”

“The little?” Malcolm’s eyebrows raise at the term.

JT rolls his eyes. “Whatever you’re calling the baby.”

“Them. Baby Arroyo.”

Pulling out onto the street, JT pats the space between them. “Water’s in the center console — have some more.”

“How late am I?” Malcolm asks, looking at his stomach and imagining the pack underneath.

“Everything’s taken care of. You can have the room private to yourself when we get there, and then Dani and I can stand with you if you want.”

“I don’t think I can.” He looks out the window, scratching his hand through his longer than usual beard.

“One of us could go in with you. You can take breaks. Have a seat. Bullshit with Edrisa about which one of you has higher alcohol tolerance.”

“Right now? Her.”

“Pretty sure she did before, too,” JT teases.

“I’ve got a multi-medication head start.”

JT chuckles but doesn’t say anything back.

“Can you not mention this? For today.” Malcolm presses his hand against his stomach. “Mother…” he trails off, not knowing quite what to say.

“Yeah. You were quiet about Jace — I can do the same. We’re here for you, man. Whatever you need.”

“I just want to go home with my partner,” Malcolm says, looking out the window to try to hold back another wave of tears.

“We’re gonna be right there,” JT reminds him.

Malcolm can’t do this.

* * *

Malcolm waves off anyone’s attempt to go in with him to pay his respects to Gil. It’s only him in the room, just inside the door, nearly a continent separating the twenty feet to Gil’s casket. Malcolm rubs his stomach and fights the urge to run again.

Gil’s face is made up like he’s asleep and he’ll turn over at any moment to pull Malcolm against his chest. This time, his arms will wrap around the belly that holds their baby, protecting both of them.

Malcolm failed to keep Gil safe. He fucking failed to hear a chainsaw before it was in his partner’s back. Then he didn’t hear anything.

The whole world is muted, dulled to dampened footsteps and muddled words that don’t break the surface of his grief. Necessity pushing him forward, Malcolm makes his way to Gil, hands fidgeting at his sides.

Up close, his partner looks different than he remembers. His mother’s done her very best, working with top-notch morticians and picking a suit Malcolm had to struggle to get Gil to wear for special occasions, but it’s not his Gil. The man before him is a close facsimile, but it’s not his partner. The father of their child. Gil’s baby.

He knows etiquette dictates what he should do in a funeral home. But he takes Gil’s hand anyway and moves it to his belly that’s barely there under his suit. “That’s your papa,” Malcolm says, holding the cold hand against his front. “That’s papa.”

He loses all concept of time standing with his partner and their child. Later appointments of heartbeats and measurements run through his mind with refitting his pack and letting Gil have a chance at doing some of the carrying. Barely an extra pound on him, Malcolm’s carried enough, his knees weak under the stress.

“Malcolm! What are you — “ his mother starts, her sharp tone dying when she sees where he has Gil’s hand clasped so tightly. He knows he’s found out by the tears that water her lower eyelids, yet they disappear quickly on her practiced breaths like medicine suctioned with an eyedropper. “You should sit,” she says, reducing her voice to one passable as concern and gripping his elbow.

“They need to know their papa,” his voice breaks, and he realizes there are streams of tears down his cheeks, drying into his beard. Salty trails crusting to permanent tracks.

His mother rubs his back in a way she used to when he was a child, holding him close in bed when he wasn’t feeling well. The touch had grown a distant memory over years of trauma and misunderstanding between them, yet it holds the same comfort now.

“They’re his baby. Baby Arroyo. Baby — “ A sob breaks his countenance, and he’s finally forced to reckon with the fact that he’s swaying on his feet. His mother wraps her arm around his back and holds him closer than she has in awhile, his head falling into her shoulder.

“Malcolm — “ she’s trying to get him to let go, to put Gil’s hand back, but he can’t — he just can’t. Her hand folds over both of their hands and squeezes in silent reassurance. “Congratulations.”

That word _again_. It’s a word that doesn’t belong in a funeral home. Congratulations, your baby’s father is dead. Congratulations, your whole fucking life has been thrown into a blender, but you’re the lucky one — you’ve been spared. Congratulations —

His stomach rolls, but he can’t even remember the last thing he’s eaten. He’s gonna be, he’s gonna be —

He drops Gil’s hand and makes the wastebasket in the corner, throwing up stomach acid and water among the tissues. “You don’t have to do this right now, okay?” his mother says, her arm running soothingly along his back. “You can come back in later.”

Later. As if by then his partner would be any less dead.

His head pounds with a mixture of exhaustion and sinuses stuffed to the brim from crying. He wrestles his body's chief desire to crawl up somewhere and die.

He’s carrying Gil’s baby. Straps tight around him, he’s the vehicle to bring the child Gil had dreamed of into the world.

The child Malcolm had grown to want too.

But he’s terrified. He can barely keep himself alive, never mind a baby on his own. And there’s a few hundred people queuing to stream in that have already been kept waiting longer than normal and the whole fucking world is going to collapse in on him —

His mother leads him back out of the room, bringing him to the small quarters designated for family. He's in a chair before he knows it, a glass of water shoved in front of his face. "Start with this," his mother says, and he finds her crouched in front of him. "Do you want vanilla, chocolate, or strawberry?"

Nothing. He doesn't want _anything_. A protein shake would be thick and gritty on his tongue. Sit in his stomach like mercury and slowly kill him as it rose back up his esophagus to his throat.

"We're gonna go stand out there like Miltons and put on our best faces to get through this."

For all the care she shows, those aren't the right words to bring him any confidence. "Mother, that isn't how grieving works."

"He'd want you to accept everyone's help. I can't... imagine what you're going through. But I can give you whatever you need to do this."

"Him," he says morosely to his feet. It has the intended effect of getting her to back away a few steps and takes her voice for a moment.

Her shoulders bristling, she says, “Chocolate coming right up," and leaves, her determined heels clicking behind her.

* * *

Malcolm doesn't even know most of the people who want to shake his hand. Old colleagues, friends — he has no idea their relationships to Gil. His mother keeps whispering in his ear to prompt him, but the parade overwhelms his composed exterior.

He can't stand through it all, either. A few times, his mind tries to escape, his body jerking as he comes back to awareness. He sits for a few moments, then stands again, but the cycle repeats, drawing unwanted attention.

After one of his jolts, JT leads him out of the room. JT's hand implies he should take a seat again for a few minutes, but Malcolm's not interested, instead leaning against the wall and loosening his tie and collar.

"Took the wrong bet, I think," JT says.

The oddity of the statement's placement piques Malcolm's interest. "Go on."

"Your mom's got a rolodex of everyone."

"Perks of being a socialite." Malcolm rubs his brow. "It's exhausting."

Edrisa strides toward them. "You got a BB-Pack?" she asks in surprise, and JT jumps because he didn’t see her coming. Malcolm's hands follow her eyes, and he feels the strap peeking out at his collar, so he quickly hides it back away. "You're having a baby?!" she exclaims in the small hallway, and JT shoots her a glare that threatens to lead to another death.

Malcolm barely nods, but he’s unable to get another word in before she keeps talking.

"Did you opt for the abdominal port or groin port?" Her whole face is lit with the prospect of seeing the new medical technology in person. Her glee fades as quickly as it had arrived. “Oh, sorry — maybe you don't want to talk about that."

"It's fine, Edrisa." It's not really, but she means well, just curious, and she's one of the few people who will fully understand. "Abdominal."

"How far along are you?"

"Three weeks."

"That means — " the pieces connect and she goes silent.

Malcolm's suit is hot, sweat accumulating between the plastic pack and his stomach. He just wants a few minutes alone, then maybe he'll be able to go back in. "I'm gonna..." he gestures his thumb at the bathroom and ducks inside, escaping the conversation.

* * *

"How long have you known?" his mother asks when Adolpho drops them off at Malcolm's loft after the wake.

"A few hours."

" _Malcolm_."

He shrugs, not caring if she judges his choices.

She gives him a once-over. "I'm gonna stay so it's easier to get you up for the funeral."

10AM the next morning, and it's already almost midnight. It's not like she's going to leave, even if he asks.

"Please let me know if you need anything. I'll be right upstairs."

She reaches to brush his cheek, but he backs away to avoid it, saying "Good night" instead.

He lays in bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to his mother futzing upstairs. His hands sit over Gil's baby, gloomy that Gil's not there resting behind him to feel the same squish of his added belly, and he wonders what the pack will look like as it expands over the next eight months.

* * *

Malcolm doesn’t want to go back to the precinct. Always hungry for a case, it’s his first instinct to try to bring his days some stability, but the thought of entering the precinct without his partner is overwhelming. JT’s called him to come in a few times, but Malcolm repeats the same response — he’s not ready.

Their baby grows a little bit, and he no longer needs to squint to find them. The translucent pouch hides the graphic detail that he’s somewhat curious about, but when he’s home, he finds he enjoys going shirtless so he can see their baby if he wants.

It’s him, Sunshine, WebSleuth, Justice Quest, and baby Arroyo most of the time. Huddled in Gil’s home office, Malcolm’s laptop setup where Gil used to build model cars. Most contact with the outside world is through his phone, but his mother forces him to a weekly dinner he complies with so she's less likely to invade their loft, and his friends stop by every once in a while.

His phone buzzes, and he answers. “We’re outside, bro,” JT says. “Got an illusionist for you.”

Malcolm hustles downstairs and pulls on a t-shirt before he buzzes them in the door. He’s not exactly dressed to have company, but he’s good enough.

“You look good,” is the first thing out of Dani’s mouth when she walks through the door, and he catches her eyes briefly glancing at his torso.

Malcolm’s hands instinctively move to cover his stomach as if it would disappear. His t-shirt isn’t even tight over it, but the edges and straps are visible when the thin material catches — he doubts she would’ve noticed if he were wearing a suit. “Pack baby only has one direction to go,” he says, trying to move on from the observation. “You have a case?”

“Of your favorite sparkling water.” JT sets it on the counter. “And maybe that.” He tilts his head toward the folder in Dani’s hands.

“Here or in the living room?” Dani asks.

“Here’s fine. Just keep a lookout — Sunshine’s around here somewhere,” Malcolm says.

“Already lost the kid, Bright?” JT teases.

“She likes adventures,” Malcolm says. With spending more time at home, he's been trying to give her more time roaming free.

Dani lays each of the photos and papers out on the countertop. “You need help with anything while we’re here?” she asks.

He knows she means Gil's things should be boxed and donated. That maybe it's time to go back to working in his own office. That he should tell them if they can do anything to help him feel more comfortable returning to the precinct. But he doesn't want to do any of those things, so he shakes his head and looks at the evidence laid out in front of them.

Their presence alone brings a comfort he can't describe, and he lets himself get lost in the draw of a case.

* * *

The pack grows a little bit each week — Malcolm measures every time he steps on the scale. His second checkup, the doctor does an ultrasound. "Got a healthy heartbeat," she says.

He wonders if it sounds like Gil's, tha-thump, tha-thump under his ear while he sleeps in, but when the sound comes through, it's speedier, breaking the illusion that Gil's there with him. His eyes tear, and he can't stop them from falling to his ears.

"Could I... uh... have a few minutes," he asks.

"Of course." The doctor wraps up the examination and leaves.

Malcolm takes out his phone and plays a voicemail, holding it against his growing pack. Their baby’s too small to actually hear anything, but it doesn’t change Malcolm’s mind about keeping them close to their papa. "Hey kid. I don't know what you're up to, but I'm stuck in traffic — I'll be home soon. Chin up — I'm sure the news from the doctor will be good. Relax a bit, and I'll make you some dinner when I get there. Love you."

He sets his phone aside and rubs the pack, tears slipping out one after the other in a quiet, continuous slide. Most times he tries to meter them, not wanting their baby's impression of their missing papa to be shaded with sadness. Their baby's heartbeat echoing in his mind makes them difficult to stop.

"Do you want us to call someone for you, Mr. Bright?" a nurse pokes her head in and asks. "The doctor says you're all set for today."

Were there phones that could reach wherever Gil was now? "I'm alright," he says, pulling his shirt back together across his stomach. "I'll be out in a minute."

* * *

“Tally wants me to offer that you can ask her any questions about pregnancy if you want,” JT says, sitting on Malcolm’s couch.

“I’m not pregnant,” Malcolm says from the chair beside him.

“Carrying, pregnant — you’re going to need a lot of the same scans. Procedures, tests — she knows about them if you want to talk to her.”

“Why didn’t she say that?”

“Doesn’t want to push. Thought it might be better if I brought it up.”

“I’m not delicate.” He's a highly capable, thoroughly trained ex-FBI agent —

“No one said you were.”

“There are a few more slices of pizza left, gentlemen — any takers?” Tally asks, holding open the pizza box in front of them.

“Do they find things wrong on scans?” Malcolm turns to her and asks, the first time he realizes the possibility that after making it this far, something could still go wrong.

Tally looks at JT, then Malcolm. “They can,” she says. “But they also tell you everything going right.”

“I’m not that lucky,” Malcolm says.

“You have a growing baby,” she argues. “I’d consider that pretty lucky.”

His hands shift over the pack protectively as if continuing to shield it from outside forces as he had been would be the answer to a healthy baby. Maybe he’s not doing enough.

* * *

The doctor’s office tells Malcolm to budget an hour for the second ultrasound. They want to confirm the baby’s bones are developing normally and check heart function. Between JT bringing it up and the office reinforcing it, the idea that something could go wrong multiplies in Malcolm’s head until there’s a kaleidoscope of possibilities.

The thought grows like creeping ground cover until it’s the only thing he can think about, leading him to forgo any online casework the day of the appointment. Even after the appointment’s done and the doctor confirms everything is fine, the thought that something could happen to their baby remains.

He is solely responsible for another life. Sunshine technically counts as a responsibility, but the prospect of looking after a human is different. The fact that he’s connected by port to them brings added opportunity for risk. He vows to start watching his intake and stress more closely in an attempt to hedge toward a positive outcome.

Surely after 37 years of being unable to do that very thing, he’d be able to figure it out now for their child.

* * *

“Bright, why are you locked in again?” Dani asks, walking into his kitchen.

Malcolm’s in the middle of a puddle of green sprayed across the counter, the lid to the blender askew. When he sees Dani, he tries to mop up the mess faster.

“What is that?” she asks.

“Spinach, kale, and avocado smoothie,” he says. The words taste as gross saying them as they did sampling the witches brew.

She quirks an eyebrow at him. “Market all out of Twizzlers?”

“Baby needs nutrients to grow. I’m… trying a new thing.”

She runs her finger around the rim of the blender and licks it. The grimace on her face confirms, “This is awful.”

“Blender thought so too.”

She joins in helping him clean up, and together they leave the counter in its typical state. Poking around in the fridge, she pulls out a few ingredients. “Grilled cheese?” she asks.

“Sure,” he says.

She starts a pan on the stove and readies the ingredients for two sandwiches on a plate. “Eat anything at all, and your baby will be fine.”

“Gil’s baby,” he corrects.

“Bright — “

“This was what _he_ wanted. I can’t do this by myself.” His doubt creeps back in.

“You’re doing just fine. Your baby looks fine.” She glances at his stomach, and only then does he realize he’d never put a t-shirt on. He steps away to remedy the situation.

Instead of pulling on a shirt that would accentuate his middle, he wraps a blanket from the back of the couch around him and returns to the counter. “It’s a few more weeks until the doctor can say for sure,” he explains. “Trying to do whatever I can to make sure they’ll be okay.”

“Low stress,” she says.

“I’m an expert at that.”

“Friends and grilled cheese.”

He gives her a silly smirk and sits on a stool, waiting for their meal to cook.

* * *

“Malcolm!” his mother calls, already inside his loft. “I’ve got a few new shirts for you to try.”

Interrupted from casework, he walks downstairs to greet her.

“Seems I came at the right time,” she comments on his lack of shirt. “You’re popping.”

“Growing,” he corrects. “Pack’s auto-expanding as expected.”

“I never could see you two inside me,” she says. “Maybe that was a good thing.”

“I kinda like it. Lets me know they’re there.”

“Larges to accommodate your growing pack.” She hands over the shirts. “Try one on and I’ll stay awhile.”

He briefly considers not putting one on and getting her to leave. But her heart’s in the right place, so he pulls one on over his head. The material is too loose — he practically swims in it.

“Medium would’ve done it, I guess,” she says. “You’ve got it easier now that you’re a homebody. When I was pregnant with you two, suits were not so forgiving.”

“Do you have pictures, mom?”

“Burned them.”

“Tell me about it?”

“I thought your sister would come out as a banana — all I ever wanted to eat.”

His mother keeps sharing stories of her pregnancies, and for once, he doesn’t feel like he has to chase her out of his loft.

* * *

Each day that ticks down to twenty weeks has Malcolm buzzing with anxiousness. When the day hits, the doctor can do another ultrasound and tell him all of their baby’s organs are functioning fine — Gil’s baby is fine.

As the ultrasound probe moves over the pack, he closes his eyes. There’s a screen he’s welcome to look at, but if he takes a peek, something he doesn’t want to see might look back. An abnormality, something deadly their baby can’t recover from, and any trace of Gil would be gone all over again.

“You have a healthy baby, Mr. Bright,” the doctor says. “Everything within normal range.”

Relief leads him to open his eyes.

“Half down, half to go. What do you say we get you into some stronger straps? Little one’s getting a bit heavier to carry now.”

He lets the doctor do whatever she has to, in a daze while the words that their baby is healthy swim in his mind.

“Keep taking care of yourself, and you’ll be bringing your baby home in no time.”

He’d be bringing them home. Not he and Gil. Him. Gil’s baby, their baby on days he felt confident, but Malcolm would be the one around to be… what was he calling himself exactly?

Cleaning off his cloudy fishbowl of a stomach, he dresses to go home.

* * *

With the first adjustment of Malcolm's pack straps, the pack is held a bit more securely. Baby Arroyo's able to twist and kick, and the reinforcement is needed to keep them from wrestling away from his stomach. Another future martial artist in the family.

It's a weird sensation, their baby moving against his skin. Nearly like Gil's fingers tickling or caressing him. He hopes the protective plastic is enough to keep his nervousness from rubbing off on their baby. But maybe the nutrients they get through his port will ruin any hope of that.

He's tired. The new, thicker straps pull at his back weird, and they're even harder to disengage for cleaning. Laying on his back in bed, they dig into his skin and leave him feeling raw.

They were supposed to do this together. Trade off carrying when it gets to be too much. Support each other when the prospect of becoming parents is daunting. Share in moments like movements and pictures.

Now, every update makes him miss his partner more. It’s a hole that no matter how big their baby grows, they’ll never fill. It leaves him feeling subhuman.

He’s not fit to be a father.

* * *

One baby. Two babies. Three, four, five babies all running away from Malcolm in feats of strength. He can’t catch any of them — they’re getting into everything.

Sunshine’s cage is overturned, there’s food spewed across the hardwood floor, an endless stream of water is rushing from somewhere out of sight. The room spins and the walls turn crimson, painting his loft into a cell, the door to escape unmoving in his face.

“My boy, such beautiful children. They can come play anytime,” Dr. Whitly says.

Malcolm’s eyes dart around, looking for his kids. They’re all within easy reach of Dr. Whitly, but too far away for Malcolm to protect. One holds a stethoscope, another crinkles a drawing, one sips tea, another smushes clay between tiny fingers, one grabs a knife —

Malcolm’s hands shoot forward, trying to prevent Dr. Whitly’s influence, but he’s held back. His children climb all over Dr. Whitly, enchanted by the mystical, fuzzy man. They’re manipulated into doing anything the man wants, and the knife points at Malcolm.

In unison, all the babies march forward to attack him. He wrenches and jerks, but can’t escape, mauled by his own children.

He wakes screaming and huddled in the fetal position, arms flailing. His restraints are pulled taught against the bed frame, but serve their purpose — he’s not strewn on the floor or out the window.

It’s just another nightmare — another thing that’s not real. But the worry that caring for one child will feel like five or his father attempting to establish contact with them eats him alive.

* * *

Gil’s home office is supposed to become a nursery. It’s the room that makes the most sense, has the most light, but Malcolm can’t touch it. The whole space is a shrine to his partner, much like Gil’s house had been a shrine to Jackie. Malcolm can’t deface it.

The end of his bed is the next best option, but he worries about the damage his yelling might do. Though upstairs wouldn't be quiet by any means, their baby wouldn't have a front row seat to his night terrors.

It's been awhile since he's felt the need to hide his health in the daylight. Why is he even contemplating hiding from their child?

Because he doesn't want to ruin them forever like Dr. Whitly. And Gil's not there to talk him out of the concern. He curls up in the chair at the end of the bed, unable to make any progress on a nursery.

Instead, he talks to their baby, telling them stories of their future. “When you come home, you’ll get to meet Sunshine,” he says. “She’s friendly — she’ll probably want to preen you. Or roost.”

He has to provide both sides of the conversation but pauses as if awaiting a response. “Sometimes Bright has nightmares, but Sunshine helps remind him everything’s alright. We care for each other — she’ll care for you too.”

“Do you think you’d like it down here with me?” he asks. “You’d get view of everything, even if it’s a little noisy sometimes.”

He takes the silence as agreement that perhaps it’s a viable option.

* * *

Malcolm goes into the closet looking for a shirt. Dani’s supposed to be coming over, and that means no shirtlessness — some semblance of an effort to look the part for a guest.

Instead of reaching for a button-down from the rack, opening one drawer turns into two and then more, rooting through each of Gil’s sweaters looking for the softest. He feels his way through Gil’s favorite oranges and charcoals, even considers a navy before pulling a white turtleneck sweater over his head that falls over the end of his hands.

Safely enclosed in the knit, he kneels on the floor and considers he doesn’t need to keep all of them. There are a select few he will enjoy wearing while he’s carrying, and the rest can go to someone else who will enjoy them. It’s a decision that doesn’t take much thought, and it doesn’t bring him sadness in his chest — it’s more practical for the clothes to go to use.

He’s quick at picking which ones go into a bag to donate. Pull the sweater out, feel, consider, bag or back in the top drawer. All the favorites get lined up snug in a row, and the others make their way out.

The next handful comes up with material that doesn’t feel like knit. Two little legs drop out of a Yankees sleeper. Behind it is an NYPD onesie. Another onesie with a lightbulb and bright spelled out underneath drops from his hand to the floor.

Gil had bought baby clothes. He’d had hope.

Their baby’s _first_ clothes. Malcolm hadn’t had any thought to pick anything out yet. “Papa got you something,” he says, laying the sleeper over his belly. He adds the rest of the pieces he can reach and sees that a few more remain in the drawer. “Papa loves you very much.”

His hand rests on top and he drifts, appreciating his partner’s thoughtfulness. It’ll be a while yet before their baby can wear them, but they can come home in an outfit their papa picked out.

He doesn’t move until someone touches his shoulder, and he remembers Dani was coming. Well, is there, crouched in front of him. “You good?” she asks, and her thumbs brush away wetness from his cheeks.

“That’s things to donate,” he says, pointing to the bag half-filled.

“Okay.”

“I’ll be out in a minute.” He gives a small smile. “Help yourself to anything.”

“You’re not that small, Bright,” she jokingly comments on the pile on his stomach.

“Can you teach my kid about baseball?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. I’ll be out.”

* * *

Indulging in a luxurious shower, Malcolm attempts to wash away his stresses with a mix of lavender and mint. He cleans and disinfects his port as usual, but after he gets out of the shower, the pieces won't click back together, so he can't reconnect the pack. Something’s defective, and the latch doesn’t catch.

Their baby is healthy, all the scans have shown so, but him failing at something so simple will jeopardize it all. As much as he’s been caring for their child for Gil, literally joined at the hip, he’s grown attached to them himself. He can’t lose them.

He’s practically forcing the plastic together, nozzle into port, but his effort only yields a _tap, tap, tap_ with each failure instead of the usual _click_. He’s done it every day for months — why can’t he get this simple thing right?

Their baby will _die_ if he can’t get it reconnected. The last link he has to Gil will _die_. Palms slippery and heart pounding into his head, the effort just gets worse. He lays on his back on the floor, holding the connection together as best he can, hoping it will buy him some time.

His other hand dials 9-1-1. The ambulance won’t be equipped to help him, but it can get him someplace that can.

“It’s okay, baby,” he says, running his hand over the burgeoning bump. “Bright’s gonna take care of you.”

Feet kick back at him, but he can’t tell if it’s distress or their typical movements. “You’re okay,” he repeats, and he strains to believe it himself.

* * *

“Where’s the baby?” are the first words out of his mother’s mouth. She looks frantically around the room when her eyes don’t find his bulging stomach.

“Pre-natal ICU. Baby's fine,” he adds when her eyes grow to saucers. “Needs supplemental support while this heals.” His hand sits over a fresh surgically implanted port.

“What happened?” she asks.

“Apparently the inner ring failed. They removed and replaced — I’m fine,” he reassures. A small defect in the nascent medical technology.

“They didn’t race you here in an ambulance for nothing. Let me see,” she says at the same time she pulls his gown to the side.

“ _Mother_.” He doesn’t even have shorts on, and he barely gets his hand down in time to press at his hip so he’s not left naked before her.

“They cut you again.”

“That is what surgically implanted means.”

“Your skin is getting tortured by that thing. You need some lotion.”

“Mother, I’m fine.”

She reaches into her purse and there’s a dollop of lotion in her hand before he can catch up to what’s going on.

“Mother — _pants_ ,” he stresses.

“Don’t be silly, I can — “

He holds his other arm out to stop her advance. “Find my pants, then you can do whatever it is you think is necessary,” he says, realizing he’s probably going to regret the statement.

She retrieves a plastic bag of his belongings tucked away in the cabinet. He pulls his shorts and pants on under the sheets, and he takes the gown off so she can work. Warming the lotion on her fingers, she rubs it into his ashy skin.

He’s not prepared for the first human touch he’s had in awhile. It reminds him of a back rub Gil had given him with massage oil that had put him to sleep. What he wouldn’t do for one of those on days his back aches.

"Please let me do it," he says and backs away from her hands.

She's surprised, but complies, squeezing more lotion onto his fingers instead.

"You can tell me where," he says, trying to make sure she knows he's appreciative of the gesture.

"Put extra where the straps are digging in. You should have them loosen them."

He likes to keep as tight a hold on their baby as possible, as he fears something will go wrong and their baby will fall. It's happened anyway, their baby whisked away to a subsection of NICU that's reserved for supporting a fetus while their parent recovers. Hooked up to machines for life support, the pack is cared for similarly as it had been connected to his body.

He can't wait to carry their baby again. It'll be a few days before he's healed enough to make that possible, but he vows to do anything to get them out of the hospital as soon as he can. If he can get his shirt, maybe he can find his way down to the pre-natal ICU to sit with his child.

* * *

The chair stares back at Malcolm from the entryway when he comes home from the hospital. At the far end of the bed, it's where Gil sat while watching over him while he slept, making sure none of his demons caught up with him.

There's now a bassinet beside it and a small chest of drawers behind it. The top of his dresser has been turned into a changing table, his photos moved to the window.

He doesn't like that someone's been in his space. Doesn't enjoy that someone's made all the design choices for him and moved around his things.

But he can admit if they hadn't, he wouldn't have a nursery. He's been stalling for so long, he'd be bringing home their baby and have nothing for them to sleep in. Not that he knows what to do with any of these things, really, but he supposes YouTube can teach him to at least put their baby to sleep the right way, feed, and change a diaper.

He looks closer at the bassinet and finds one of Gil's orange sweaters turned into a small blanket, draped over the side. There's Arroyo embroidered in a corner. He brings it up to his face, the combination of soft knit and memories tearing his eyes. A teddy bear Malcolm and Gil had given Jace sits inside, Dani's scripty handwriting on the front of a card resting under its feet.

Folding himself in the chair with the gifted items, he holds the blanket over his belly, barely covering their baby. His fingers remain tangled in the knit, unwilling to let go of the reminder of his partner.

Their baby kicks, spurring him to unfold the simple, white notecard. _If you need anything else, just text us. Edrisa says these are all the highest safety rating. JT says don't put the gifts in with the baby, but it was the easiest place for baba to spot them. You're probably tired — your favorite jello's in the fridge. <3 Dani_

His lips move in a slight smile at the suggestion of baba — he has no idea what he'll end up using, just that it won't carry any reminder of dad, father, or overlap with Gil's papa. The thought of having their baby unpacked by himself increases his agita, and the fear that he'll accidentally cause irreparable harm due to his health lingers like an elephant sobbing in the corner. But with a few slight changes to the room from his found family, he can almost see it’s possible.

He hugs the bear closer, and the sound of his partner's voice fills the air, surprising him. " _Hey kid_." He keeps the bear against his belly, hoping that now that their baby can hear, they will know how much they are loved. " _I don't know what you're up to, but I'm stuck in traffic — I'll be home soon. Chin up — I'm sure the news from the doctor will be good. Relax a bit, and I'll make you some dinner when I get there. Love you._ "

Malcolm closes his eyes, and just for a moment, everyone's there — papa, baby, and Bright. And a loving extended family for baby Arroyo to be unpacked into.

* * *

_fin_

**Author's Note:**

> For ToriCeratops' wonderful prompt: Major Character Death. Gil dies before Malcolm finds out they finally conceived. Angst it up. Go nuts.


End file.
